The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (7 page)

So absorbed in the moment was she—so anchored in the web created by the combination of the unexpectedly stimulating interaction with Ryder and the truly quite excellent music—that it was only toward the very end of the performance that the covertly inquisitive glances directed Ryder’s way from all corners of the room truly registered.

But once they had . . . she inwardly blinked, wondering, then realized what was causing the older ladies—the few grandes dames present and the older matrons especially—to cast such intrigued and penetrating glances his way.

Why was he there?
More specifically, why had he come in the first place, and why had he remained?

She’d assumed he’d come to protect Randolph from her, and once he’d confirmed that Randolph wasn’t there, had followed her to her chair and sat beside her because he’d wanted to listen to the performance and hadn’t wanted to be bothered interacting with anyone else.

For a gentleman of his ilk to be interested in music, as he demonstrably was, wasn’t unheard of, yet previously that interest had never to her knowledge been sufficient to move him to attend an event such as this. From the interrogatory glances leveled at him, no other lady had seen him—lion that he was—at such an event before, either.

A tingling sensation feathered across her nape and slid over the back of her shoulders.

As Ryder himself had pointed out, this type of event held at this time of the Season was expressly designed to promote further connection between those contemplating matrimony, witness the large number of young couples scattered about the room interacting under the watchful eye of chaperons. Consequently, the appearance of a gentleman of Ryder’s status at such an event would be interpreted as a declaration that he was hunting—not for a paramour but for a bride.

The music swelled to a crescendo. Her lungs slowly seized. Barely moving her head, she glanced at Ryder. Gracefully relaxed alongside her, he was fully absorbed in the music.

Fleetingly, she studied his face—the sculpted lines, the undeniable male beauty that in no way disguised the strength and potent power behind the façade—then looked forward again and drew a tight breath.

Nowhere near deep enough to steady her suddenly giddy head.

He was there, and had stayed, for the music.

What else?

The nervous flutter in her chest, in her stomach, was patently ridiculous. There was, she sternly lectured herself, no reason for such a reaction; it wasn’t as if he’d done anything to make her feel . . .

He was there, by her side, large as life.

She mentally shook aside the ludicrous notion that, courtesy of the other ladies’ visual speculation, had inserted itself into her brain.

Grimly determined to conceal her sudden and quite nonsensical susceptibility, she forced herself to listen to the last of the last sonata; when it ended, she applauded as earnestly as anyone else, smiling delightedly as with the rest of the audience she rose to her feet to deliver a standing ovation.

As the applause faded, Lady Hopetoun thanked the players, then everyone clapped once more. As the final round died, everyone turned to find their parties.

Keeping her delighted smile fixed on her face, she glibly took her leave of Ryder, very correctly thanking him for his company, then, faster than she ever had before, made her way to the safety of her chaperon’s side.

H
is shoulders propped against the last column of the Hopetoun House porch, Ryder hung back in the gloom and listened to the exchange between Mary and Amanda. The pair had walked out of the front door, crossed the porch, and halted on the steps leading down to the street. Other guests streamed past them, leaving in twos and threes, all equally oblivious of him standing silently in the shadows out of their immediate line of sight.

Mary shook out her silk shawl, then resettled it over her largely bare shoulders. “We’ve got both carriages here—there’s no need for you to follow me to Upper Brook Street. I’ll have John Coachman and our footman—I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Yes, well.” Amanda checked her shawl and reticule. “I suppose that’s true, and it isn’t any great distance from here to there.”

“And Park Lane is even closer.” Mary leaned over and bussed Amanda’s cheek. “Thank you for coming and watching over me—I know you wouldn’t have attended otherwise. And don’t worry about Ryder—as I said, he was just interested in the music. I certainly don’t expect to find him dancing attendance on me.”

“Hmm . . . perhaps, but remember what
I
said. He’s a deep one. Don’t underestimate him.”

Shrouded in shadow, Ryder grinned.

The sisters parted, going down the steps to where their respective carriages waited. He watched as they were handed up by their footmen, then the doors were shut, and first Amanda’s carriage, followed by the carriage carrying Mary, pulled out into the stream of fashionable coaches rumbling slowly westward.

Once Mary’s carriage had disappeared around the bend in Hill Street, Ryder set his hat on his head and, cane swinging in one hand, emerged from the shadows; joining the still steady stream of departing guests, he descended to the pavement and, with polite nods to this lady and that, walked off along the street.

He rarely used a carriage in Mayfair; his long strides ate the distances easily enough, and the relative silence of the night, punctuated though it was by the familiar rattle of passing coaches, was nevertheless soothing. Certainly after an evening spent with others, in the usual cacophony of social events.

Turning north up the less frequented Hayes Mews, as the night enveloped him in its dark and its peace, he strode along easily, neither hurrying nor idling. He didn’t direct his mind to any particular track but allowed it to wander over the last hours, observing and noting as it would.

The impulse that had moved him to wait on the porch until he saw Mary safely on her way home was . . . interesting. He’d never felt such a compulsion before, not even with those ladies with whom he’d shared a bed. Presumably it was an expression, a natural enough one, of how he saw Mary, an upshot of the role in which he’d cast her.

Brows faintly rising, he considered the matter but saw nothing to be alarmed at; he was who and what he was, and as he now viewed her as his marchioness, such impulses were to be expected.

Also intriguing was the sudden awareness that had swamped her right at the end of the evening. Until then she’d been conversing freely, without thought or restraining consideration, but she’d suddenly become aware—he assumed because of the myriad speculative glances thrown his way by other ladies—that his presence by her side required explanation.

He’d wondered what she would make of it. In her exchange with Amanda, she’d stated her conclusion plainly enough, but . . . did she truly believe he’d remained by her side solely because of his—admittedly genuine—enjoyment of the music?

Reaching the end of Hayes Mews, he turned left into Farm Street. Smiling to himself and swinging his cane, he crossed the cobbled street and walked on to the opening of the alley that was his habitual shortcut to his home in Mount Street when returning from the southern section of Mayfair.

At this time of night, even in this bastion of the haut ton most law-abiding citizens would avoid the narrow alleys, but he strolled on without concern; not only did his size deter most would-be assailants but should they nevertheless make a try for him, the rapier concealed in his cane provided a more potent discouragement.

He knew how to use it, and no one his size survived Eton without learning all there was to know about fisticuffs, and even more to the point, outright brawling.

In truth, there was little he feared in life, not as pertained to his physical person. There was little that might effectively threaten him, not physically, but he’d come to understand that there were other threats in life, many potentially more damaging, holding much greater risk of true loss than anything on the physical plane.

Those threats were not ones he was constitutionally comfortable debating, not even with himself, but they largely arose from the issues that, having attained the age of thirty, he’d decided it was time to address.

Before they turned and bit him.

The alley narrowed for the last ten yards, the gap between the walls only just sufficient to allow him to walk freely through. Emerging from the dimness into the more affluent and commensurately well-lit ambiance of Mount Street, he turned left, walked several yards, then angled across the cobbles to the opposite pavement, stepping onto it a few paces short of the steps leading up to his own front door.

He let himself in with his latchkey. Stepping over the threshold into the lamp-lit splendor of the foyer, he was unsurprised to see his butler, Pemberly, come striding forward from the nether regions, eager to take his hat and cane. Pemberly had been butler to his father, and like the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and several other members of his staff, had been constants in Ryder’s life.

“Welcome home, my lord. I trust the evening went well?”

“Yes, indeed.” Ryder dutifully surrendered hat and cane. “If anything, better than I’d hoped.” He’d gone to Lady Hopetoun’s assuming Rand would be present; Rand’s absence and Mary’s consequent acceptance that Rand was not her future husband had simplified matters, without any effort from Ryder effectively clearing his path, and the subsequent time interacting with Mary had advanced his campaign further than he’d anticipated.

So what next?

“Will you be going out again, my lord?” Pemberly inquired.

To another ball, to a club or hell, or to some lady’s bed . . . Ryder shook his head. “No. You can lock up.” He started toward the corridor that led deeper into the huge house. “I’ll be in the library for a while, then I’ll be going up to bed.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ll tell Collier.”

Ryder nodded. Collier had been his father’s valet but had been too young to retire on his father’s death. Although Ryder didn’t need anyone’s help to dress, much less undress, and he didn’t actually like having anyone so personally close, he permitted Collier’s ministrations; the man had been devoted to his father, and especially helpful through the old man’s last days. Ryder’s current push was to insist that everyone in the household replace the outmoded label “valet” with the more modern “gentleman’s gentleman.” Thus far, it had proved a battle, but it was one he was determined to win.

Reaching the library, he went in. Closing the door, he paused, letting the comforting, welcoming atmosphere of the room—the one he spent most time in and, courtesy of all the hours the pair of them had spent there, also most associated with his father—embrace him, then, with a sigh, one of pleased satisfaction more than anything else, he strolled to the massive fireplace midway down the long room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes covered every wall, broken only by the twin doors, the fireplace, and the three long windows facing it. With the long velvet curtains drawn tight against the night, the only light came from a lamp left burning on a low table beside one of the twin sofas angled before the hearth, and the leaping flames from a small but cheery fire burning in the grate. The resulting pulsing, golden glow gleamed fitfully off the polished wood, gently winked from the gold lettering on the books’ spines, and softly caressed the dark brown leather of the sofas and chairs set about the room.

Ignoring the large desk at the far end of the room, Ryder paused beside the fireplace. From the end of the marble mantelpiece, he lifted a stack of cards—all the invitations he’d received for the coming days.

As was his habit, he removed that evening’s cards from the top of the pile and tossed them into the flames. Separating out the invitations for the following evening, he returned the rest to the top of the mantelpiece, then walked to the lighted lamp. Fanning the cards for tomorrow night’s events in one hand, he studied them in the lamplight.

This evening, Mary had started to question his motives, had started to wonder. Even if she managed to convince herself that he’d remained at Lady Hopetoun’s for the music, that conviction wouldn’t last long. If he was any judge of such things, and he was, then the time was fast approaching when she would confront him over his intentions, and he and she would have the matter out.

Anticipation welled. His lips curved.

When, exactly, that discussion would take place wasn’t something he could dictate, yet he was certain he could leave initiating said discussion—one he and she had to have—to her. She would raise the matter when she was ready, which was fine by him; he wouldn’t have to trouble himself over trying to guess when she reached that point—he felt confident he could rely on her to tell him.

Lips curving more definitely, he considered the events the haut ton was slated to enjoy the following evening.

As matters stood, he didn’t need to do anything beyond religiously appearing at Mary’s side at whichever evening events she attended. All he needed to do to advance his campaign to the next stage was to be there, and she would do the rest—would create for him the perfect opportunity to make his intentions crystal clear.

Selecting one ivory card from the seven in his hand, he reread the inscription and nodded. “This one.” Tapping the card on his thumb, he murmured, “That’s where she’ll be tomorrow night. At Lady Bracewell’s ball.”

Chapter Four

W
hat, by all that’s holy, is Ryder up to?

The next morning, over her tea and toast, Mary pondered that question with steadily mounting aggravation.

For what seemed the umpteenth time, she replayed their conversations over the past three evenings; she’d asked him, twice, what he was about, and on both occasions . . . he hadn’t exactly answered.

But when he’d challenged her to tell him what she thought his motives were, and she’d laid them out in neat and concise order, he’d agreed she was correct—yet he’d spent the previous evening by her side at a venue where a gentleman of his age should not have appeared unless matrimonially inclined. Although she could have excused his being there on the grounds of protecting Randolph from her, why, once he’d realized Randolph wasn’t there, which he had known even before she’d arrived, had Ryder stayed?

For the music?

Was his desire to hear a perfectly fine but hardly famous chamber ensemble play entirely familiar compositions that strong?

Or had he remained for some other reason?

Mary glanced at the empty chair at the foot of the table, the one her mother normally occupied. If Louise had been there, Mary would have sought her counsel; her mother, she felt confident, would have been able to unravel the complexities of Ryder’s motives in short order.

“They’ll be back tomorrow morning, miss.”

Glancing up, realizing she’d been staring rather longingly at the empty chair, Mary summoned a smile for Hudson. “Yes, I know. They’ll be home before I know it.”

“Is there anything the staff might do for you, miss—in the interim, as it were?”

“No, no.” She waved Hudson to set down the teapot he’d brought in, then lifted it and poured herself a fresh cup. “I just need some advice that Mama will surely be able to provide, but there’s no rush.” Flashing another reassuring smile at Hudson, she concluded, “Tomorrow will be time enough.”

With a bow, Hudson left to ferry her used dishes to the kitchen.

Mary leaned back in her chair and sipped. Unbidden, her memory of the previous night’s conversation with Ryder rolled through her mind . . . she blinked. Teacup suspended in midair, she sat up, replayed the critical passages again, then thought back to the night before and checked . . .

She frowned, an anxiety she’d been avoiding defining coalescing, then escalating.

Given they’d been conversing frequently of late, she could understand, considering his social standing relative to hers and their long acquaintance, that he might have dispensed with calling her “Miss Cynster.” But last night, and even the evening before, other than when he’d wanted to attract her attention . . .

He hadn’t called her anything at all.

He’d spoken to her—and she’d responded—as if . . . they already had some sort of understanding. . . .

“No!” The denial was weak; she repeated it, increasingly strongly. “No. And
no
!” Lips firming, setting down her teacup, she shook her head. “It
can’t
be so—I won’t have it so!” Ryder was not, could not possibly be, her hero—not he who was universally acknowledged as the most unmanageable nobleman in the ton.

As she was determined to remain forever in charge of her life—and therefore that of her husband—ergo, Ryder was not the man for her.

But what if he’d decided that she was the lady for him?

The question echoed through her mind as she stared unseeing across the table.

“What the devil am I to do if he has?”

B
y the time she glided beside Amelia into Lady Bracewell’s ballroom that evening, Mary was confident she’d got herself back on track.

Her track—the one leading to her hero, he who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss.

All she had to do was hunt him down. The necklace and The Lady would take care of the rest.

She’d restarted her campaign by accompanying Penelope, Portia’s sister, on an excursion to the park late that morning. They’d taken little Oliver, Penelope’s firstborn, for an outing in the mild sunshine. While strolling beside Penelope, Mary had surveyed the gentlemen driving their curricles or strolling the lawns, but none had caught her eye. None had drawn her attention, let alone fixed it.

If Penelope hadn’t been Penelope, Mary might have broached the subject of Ryder, but Penelope was more conversant with the behavior of gentlemen millennia old, or if not that, then criminally inclined; any insights she might have to offer would necessarily be questionable.

Mary didn’t need more uncertainty, especially not with respect to Ryder.

From the park, she’d joined Amanda at Dexter House, and they’d driven to Lady Holland’s for lunch, but that had been an all-female affair. And while the drive there and back had given her ample opportunity to consult her oldest sister on the matter of a botheringly persistent marquess, she had, somewhat to her own surprise, balked at raising the subject.

She’d told herself it was because she was trying her damnedest to forget the man. To oust him from her mind.

Much easier declared than done.

In Amelia’s wake, gowned in watered blue silk, with neckline and sleeves trimmed with cornflower blue ribbon, with her customary confidence she greeted Lady Bracewell, then joined Amelia to descend to the ballroom floor—and to her irritation discovered herself prey to the most peculiar case of jangling nerves.

She needed to keep her mind on her task, needed to mingle freely and assess any and all potential gentlemen, especially those she’d had highest on her list before she’d settled on Randolph Cavanaugh.

Of course, all her previous assessments had been made without benefit of the necklace, so perhaps a gentleman who had not before registered as highly as Randolph might appear more attractive when viewed through The Lady’s prism.

Walking down the white marble steps, casting her eye over the guests, she was conscious of an ever-tightening tension, an expectation she didn’t want to come true yet couldn’t quite convince herself wouldn’t, but she couldn’t see Ryder’s mane of tawny golden-brown anywhere in the room.

She looked down as they negotiated the last few steps. She didn’t
want
Ryder to be there, didn’t want him to vie for her attention, to steal away her senses by insisting on a waltz; God knew she would even admit that she wasn’t strong enough, experienced enough, to deny him. And then where would she be?

Caught up in his distracting net again, just as she had been at Castlemaine House.

But, she reminded herself as she gained the ballroom floor, raised her head, and looked out at the sea of guests, there was no longer any reason he should pursue her, not here, not tonight, not ever again.

“Good evening, Amelia.”

Mary whipped her head around and smothered a curse. She narrowed her eyes on Ryder, who had stepped out from the lee of the curving steps, which was why she hadn’t spotted him, and was bowing over Amelia’s hand.

“Ryder.” Amelia returned his smile, then glanced at Mary. “I believe you and Mary are acquainted.”

Ryder smiled at her; she told herself it was fanciful to imagine his smile looked hungry. “Indeed.”

Recalling that Amelia hadn’t realized who she had spent most of the Castlemaine ball avoiding, and didn’t know who she’d spent the previous evening being charmed by, Mary clung to her sophistication and gave Ryder a smile of her own, one weighty with warning. “Yes, we’ve met.”

Ryder held her gaze for an instant, then looked at Amelia. “Lady Croxton said she was waiting for you. She’s in a circle over there.” He waved toward a distant corner of the room.

“Ah—thank you.” Amelia peered in that direction, then glanced at Mary. “So you know where I’ll be. Ryder.” With a nod to him, Amelia departed; sliding between shoulders, she disappeared into the crowd.

Mary transferred her gaze to Ryder’s eyes; she didn’t need to take in the rest of his magnificence—as usual, he was the epitome of the elegant, sophisticated, superficially civilized nobleman. Lips firming, she stated, “I am determined to look over other candidates for my hand. Now I’ve struck Randolph from that list, you have no reason to dog my steps.”

He held her challenging gaze for several heartbeats, then his lips eased into a curve that was not exactly a smile. “Possibly. We’ll see.”

She frowned at him. “What sort of answer is that?”

He arched his brows in his customary languid fashion. “All the answer you’re likely to get.”

She smothered a frustrated growl; he was toying with her again. “Ryder, please—go away.”

He appeared to give the plea serious thought. She was almost starting to hope when, his eyes still on hers, he shook his head. “I’m really not sure I can oblige.”

She blinked; what was she to make of
that
? “Well . . .” She couldn’t dismiss him if he refused to go. Lips compressing, she narrowed her eyes on his. “Very well, but if you must hover close, at least do me the courtesy of not getting in my way.”

Waiting for no reply, she pivoted and determinedly plunged into the crowd.

Ryder grinned and, at least at first, let her lead the way.

Five minutes later, he was no longer so amused. “You can’t possibly imagine that either Rigby or Cantwell figure as suitable candidates for your hand. Your family—your cousins at least—would be appalled.”

Mary shot him a sideways glance. “Why?”

He met her gaze. “Debts.” Among less mentionable shortcomings.

“Oh.” She looked faintly crestfallen. After a moment of considering the pair in question—they were standing with a group of their peers, bucks and bloods of the ton all—she asked, “Are you sure?”

“Very. Rigby’s close to point non-plus, and Cantwell’s acres are mortgaged to the hilt.” He hesitated, then added, “That’s not exactly
common
knowledge, but it is widely known.”

She humphed and turned away. “There should be some list—the grandes dames could keep it. The Marriageable Gentlemen register.”

“I thought that was the admittance list of Almack’s.”

She inclined her head. “Those unmarried gentlemen admitted to Almack’s would presumably qualify, but in my case I’m more interested in the unmarried but marriageable gentlemen who would require wild horses to drag them over Almack’s threshold.”

Gentlemen like him.

But he kept his lips shut and ambled at her heels. Better, tonight, to let her run, to let her assess whoever she pleased so he could point out their weaknesses as candidates for her hand. If they didn’t have any . . . well, most gentlemen, at least, were far more awake to the implication of Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, consistently looming by Mary Cynster’s side.

He knew where he ranked in the list of eligible males; there were few who would bother trying to compete against him. And of that small number, all of whom were at least acquaintances, if not friends, none—even if prompted by the sport of it—were likely to tempt fate by making a bid for Mary’s hand.

She was the sort of termagant most of them would run from.

Indeed, he wasn’t at all sure why he wasn’t of similar mind.

Yet he wasn’t, and she undeniably held the power to surprise him, and, even more importantly, she made him laugh, albeit inwardly.

She was in full flight in pursuit of George Cruikshank, having managed to capture him on his own, when the introduction to the first waltz floated over the room.

George lifted his gaze to Ryder’s in mute appeal; a mild and gentle soul, George looked like a captured rabbit, all but quivering with the urge to flee.

Before Ryder could intercede and claim Mary’s hand—as he’d fully intended to do anyway—she brazenly laid said hand on George’s arm and smiled sweetly at him. “Dare I be so bold, sir, but I do love to waltz.”

“Aah . . .” George looked terrified. “Ah . . . gamy leg.”

Mary blinked. “Oh?” She looked down at George’s until then perfectly stable pins.

George gripped one thigh and grimaced weakly. “Don’t like to carry a cane, you know—too vain, I suppose you might say. But it really won’t hold me through a waltz, ’fraid to say.”

“Oh.” Her gaze still on George’s legs, Mary all but visibly deflated.

Before she could throw George into paroxysms of lies by asking for details of his invented injury, Ryder closed his fingers about her elbow—and hid his smile when she jumped just a fraction. “Come and dance with me, and let’s leave poor George to his pain.”

Mary glanced up at him; for a moment her cornflower blue gaze was unfocused—as if she was absorbed with other things—then she blinked and focused properly on him. “Oh, all right.” She glanced back at George and inclined her head. “Thank you for the conversation, sir. I hope your leg improves.”

His smile firmly suppressed, Ryder nodded to George; the degree of heartfelt thanks George managed to infuse into his wordless reply threatened Ryder’s composure, but he’d already realized that Mary had no notion of how much she rattled the meeker gentlemen of the ton.

Leading her to the floor, he turned her into his arms. “Not George, I fear.”

“Clearly not.” Frowning, Mary allowed Ryder to sweep her into the dance. And fought valiantly to keep her mind on her self-appointed task.

Within two revolutions, two powerful sweeping turns, her mind had wandered to the puzzling question of why waltzing with Ryder felt so good, so right, so fitting, so . . . perfect. Yes, he was beyond expert, but he was so much taller and larger than she that she would have imagined she would feel overwhelmed, yet instead she felt . . . protected. Not caged—the effect was too ephemeral for that—but certainly shielded from any touch, any contact with anyone else.

While waltzing, she and he formed a unit, an entity disassociated from everyone else.

Waltzing with him was like whirling freely within a fragile, essentially intangible construct, their revolutions powered by his harnessed strength, their senses and awareness given over to it, true, but not so much in surrender as in indulgence.

They’d gone down the long room once and were heading up it again when her mind caught up with reality, and she realized she’d relaxed and was delighting in the dance, and smiling easily—freely and sincerely—up at him.